


Dean's palm would be rougher

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sibling Love, palmistry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam lets himself imagine Dean’s hand, hot and tight with blood against Sam’s cheek. Dean’s fingers would slide into his hair, hot over his ear, fingertips scritching and playing. He imagines Dean making the compulsory comment about Sam’s princess locks. Sam puts his own hand to his face distractedly. Dean’s palm would be rougher, hotter, heavier, better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean's palm would be rougher

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know that Jensen's hands are probably beautifully manicured and that he could as easily be modelling rings and watches but this is my idea of Dean's hands. 
> 
> There are no angels or demons here. Just Sam and Dean hunting ghosts.

 

 

“...so not only does this baby detect ghosts and ghostly activity but, get this Sammy, it can tell us their _range_.”

 

Dean is hugely pleased with himself. The new EMF meter is streets ahead of its earlier incarnations, smaller and neat looking with a range detector that Dean has been working on for weeks. “Could have used that in Delaware,” Sam comments because he needs to say something and Dean would probably mistake outright praise for Sam patronising him.

 

“Yeah,” Dean switches it on and the digital display reads ‘0.04µT’. There’s a green background and the familiar base-level drone until Dean silences it with the push of a button. Dean’s fingernails are short and there’s a healing split beside his thumb that looks painful: a result of rapid temperature changes and submersion in oil, water, salt and some of the more unusual substances needed for the job. “Like the new display?” he asks, and it could almost be shy, if you knew how to look for it.

 

“Show me how the range estimation works,” Sam says and Dean switches the mode. Part of the reason that the meter looks so compact, Sam realises, is that Dean’s hands are bigger than they used to be. His fingertips are blunter. His fingers are thicker and weather worn.

 

“Well right now it’s telling us that the bunker’s wiring can’t get up and walk around.”

 

Dean turns the display to Sam, cradling it with one hand and pointing with the other. They’re good honest hands, Dean’s hands. Working hands. Sam hadn’t appreciated how meaty and solid they had become.

 

“It’ll automatically select the strongest source but you can see others by scrolling through here…” Dean strokes his split thumb across the display. Touch screen, Sam’s impressed. He lets Dean see it by raising his eyebrows. Dean grins back, “Good eh?”

 

Sam watches the meaty flesh at the base of Dean’s thumb as he flicks through more menus. Tendons slip and glide beneath the skin.

 

There had been a time when Sam had held onto his own hand tightly all through the long hours of the night, imagining that his hand was Dean’s hand. It had been the desperate time of fingers digging into flesh for the distraction of pain, when his soul was shattered and his walls were crumbling. One more fantasy of holding his big brother’s hand had seemed harmless enough and it had got him through the worst of it, when he couldn’t bear to be alone. It’s not the kind of thing that he would ever speak about but sometimes he craves that comfort again from the real Dean. Sometimes he still squeezes his own hand in the dark and pretends as hard as he can.

 

Dean’s palms are wide and fleshy. They would feel so good to squeeze. Sam could massage the mound between Dean’s thumb and forefinger for him, maybe relieve some stress and make him feel good. Not that Dean would allow it. He would probably call it _New Age horsecrap_ and give Sam a pitying look for being a sad hippy-vegan type.

 

Sam lets himself imagine Dean’s hand, hot and tight with blood against Sam’s cheek. Dean’s fingers would slide into his hair, hot over his ear, fingertips scritching and playing. He imagines Dean making the compulsory comment about Sam’s princess locks. Sam puts his own hand to his face distractedly. Dean’s palm would be rougher, hotter, heavier, _better_.

 

“Earth to Sam,” Dean’s giving him a look. “Can we stay with the programme? Maybe dream about the new Barbie later?”

 

“Fuck off,” Sam says mildly but drops his hand. “S’good Dean,” he adds, nodding at the EMF meter and hoping that Dean can take the compliment for what it is. “Just need to test it, find us a haunting.”

 

For a moment Dean looks guarded but then a cocky smile lights up Sam’s day. “Course it is,” he says, “Built by the best. And I’m way ahead of you on the haunting. Big ole hotel in Maine. Pack up your bumbershoot Frances, it’s gonna be April showers for us.”

 

 

****

 

 

Dean’s natural environment is his baby’s driver’s seat. He’s comfortable and capable, holding her wheel at ten and two. His fingers close easy around her leather, familiar and possessive. There was a time when Dean drove everywhere with one forearm resting along the window frame but Sam knows that the lopsided posture gives him neck ache after long distances these days.

 

Sam has heard it said about horse riding that the horse can feel like an extension of the rider. Seasoned riders claim to harmonise with their animal to the point where they feel they have four legs instead of two. On the endless road, in their eternal crusade, Dean has four wheels and two hundred and seventy five brake horsepower, in unity with his baby.

 

Prominent veins crisscross the back of Dean’s right hand and cable up his forearm, intertwining with corded muscles that twitch and flex, distracting Sam from the world outside. He wonders how those muscles look when Dean jerks himself off and whether Dean uses his right hand or his left, like Sam does. He wonders how they’d look if Dean jerked Sam off, how the dry roughness of Dean’s palm would feel wrapped around his length, tugging his skin, the calluses of Dean’s other hand gently scraping his ball sack, if Dean were to fondle him there.

 

There are minute cuts and old scars across Dean’s knuckles that really need kissing better. There are fair hairs on his forearms that are almost invisible until the sun catches them right, illuminating golden fur that Sam wants to touch with his face.

 

Dean’s hands are the most tanned part of his body. They’re always out, always working, always in use. There are sparse freckles on his fingers but they start in earnest on the backs of his hands and swarm up his arms, although right now they’re almost invisible in the tan. Small darker moles decorate Dean’s forearms: a message in Braille only for Sam.

 

 

****

 

 

They stop at a run-down lodge by Lake Erie for the night. Sam goes out for food and when he gets back Dean has nodded off, covers bunched up behind him on the bed, remote control slipping from his open hand.

 

Sam smiles fondly, since Dean can’t see him. Dean could be someone’s dad: any regular guy zonked out in front of the football on a Sunday, mouth open a little, not quite snoring. They both need a shave.

 

The smell of take-out will wake Dean soon enough. Sam sits on his own bed and contemplates his brother’s open palm. He counts the calluses: five altogether. There are three on the bases of his fingers, middle, ring and little; one on the pad of his thumb and another at the upper crease of his middle finger, their skin a work-roughened yellow.

 

Dean’s little finger stands slightly apart from the rest, which makes sense. Sam studied palmistry along with every other divination on Dad’s orders. If the mysteries of the hand are to be believed then Dean’s aloof little fingers signify awkwardness and mistrust. Sam’s are the same. When he was younger he had worried about the ‘difficulties with intimate relationships’ foretold in his fingers. He has been bereft of intimacy for so long by this point that in retrospect his worries are almost comical in their irrelevance.

 

Sam’s thumbs are set lower than Dean’s but Dean’s are firmer and broader. Sam’s thumbs are flexible, arching back on themselves, which is supposed to indicate flexibility of personality. The inflexibility of Dean’s thumbs is more likely due to all the sucking they endured when Sam and Dean were kids than any inflexibility of character, although Dean can be as stubborn as a mule when he digs his heels in. Dean can also flex and adapt with the best however: he built his personality around Sam’s after all, twisting himself into whatever shape Sam had needed him to be.

 

Sam has artist’s hands, long artfully sculpted slim fingers. Bookish hands. He has gun calluses too but not so many.

 

Dean has mechanics hands. Hunters hands, working hands. Big serious capable manly man’s hands, and apparently that’s what’s turning Sam on these days.

 

“Chinese?”

 

Sam looks away, too quickly, caught looking. He clears his throat. “Yeah, there’s one on the corner,” he says, not meeting Dean’s eyes. He hands Dean’s take-out bag over and busies himself with his own. “Chow mein. Get it while it’s hot.”

 

 

****

 

 

There’s only one ghost in the Awrey Manor Hotel and the EMF meter leads them straight to the centre of its territory: the attic. When they move the suitcase of bones the ghost comes at them, all cold fury and speed, but Sam’s faster with the shotgun and she’s not so strong, this spirit, not so quick to regroup after a blast of rock salt.

 

They take the suitcase deep into the hotel gardens to burn, well out of sight of the bedroom windows. The rain has stopped for now and whoever put the bones in the case had done so when they were already dried and dusty.

 

The bones had belonged to a woman once upon a time, and that’s all Sam knows. He wonders who had carried her bones around in a suitcase and why, and how they had ended up in the attic. Sam and Dean had hauled a suitcase of bones long-distance across the Atlantic once, for complicated reasons of their own. Maybe the mystery behind these bones is just as complex. They’ll never know. Dean is lighting her up and Awrey Manor will be ghost free for now, a clear green on the digital display.

 

The new EMF meter has cheapened the experience of laying spirits to rest for Sam. In the past he would have researched for hours, more often than not learning the spirit’s story along the way while he tried to find their remains. For all the wrongs done, business left unfinished, lives wasted, Sam had borne witness. There’s no need to research the mystery of the bones in the suitcase now. The new method of finding remains is efficient but it lacks humanity and Sam sends a silent apology to the dead woman for neglecting to learn her story, and a prayer that she finds peace.

 

Dean puts his hand around the front of Sam’s wrist and pulls him back, away from the flames. There’s a beautiful moment, only a few seconds really, where Dean holds onto Sam’s wrist and they watch the fire together. Sam holds his breath and thinks, _So close, so close to my hand_ , and then Dean lets go.

 

 

****

 

 

Dean has _father-figure_ hands. For fuck’s sake. Sam has to admit to it. It’s the itch at the centre of his fixation. Dean’s hands look like Dad’s, back when Dad had been the Master of their Universe and the strongest man to ever live. Their father’s hands had been the hands by which all judgement was delivered, to Sam and Dean and also to the evil things that crawled the Earth. Their father’s hands had trained them, cared for and provided for them. And then they had pushed Sam almost entirely into Dean’s hands, which had been too small and too fresh at the time. Now Dean has finally grown into his hands. Dean’s hands should have looked this way for decades, Sam thinks: powerful and used. These are Dean’s true hands; they have just been hiding beneath a mask of youth until now.

 

Sam dares to touch Dean’s thumb with his tongue. Lightly, so lightly that Dean probably wouldn’t register it even if he was awake. Their free-of-charge room at Awrey Manor might be big and draughty but the two queen sized beds are plush and Dean is comfortable, two pints of beer consumed and sleeping deeply. His breathing stays regular and he doesn’t even twitch.

 

Sam licks again, letting the tip of his tongue dance over the skin, up across tiny hairs and around to the pad, pausing to swallow when saliva fills floods his mouth at the hint of taste. He dares to use a little more of the flat of his tongue, tiny kitten licks over the callused pad, all the better to taste. Dean’s fingers flex in a tiny spasm and Sam retreats.

 

Dean’s hand is open, palm up, in an unconscious gesture of honesty. Sam draws back and contemplates the lines that are uniquely Dean. There are many more lines than there used to be and they have shifted over time as Dean has learned to use his hands differently. Sam remembers the basics of palmistry. Dean’s life-line is strong, long and pleasingly curved around the fleshy mound of his thumb. There’s nothing to indicate six resurrections. Sam absently wonders what Christ’s life-line had looked like.

 

Maybe, if Sam was an expert, he would be able to read lines on Dean’s palm that spell ‘Apocalypse’ and ‘Angelic Vessel’ but Sam can’t see them. Dean’s fate-line bisects his palm neatly. His head-line meets the life-line below his forefinger, supposedly a sign of focus and motivation if they join. Sam’s lines join similarly. Dean’s forefinger isn’t as long as Sam’s though and Dean isn’t the one sometimes driven beyond what is reasonable. Dean’s just a guy doing a job. An unusual job, sure, but it’s just work all the same. And you can’t keep a good man from work, they say.

 

Sam traces Dean’s heart-line with the tip of his tongue. It is also long and deep and the salty warm taste of sleeping Dean greets him. A tiny line runs above the heart line, between forefinger and middle finger. Sam remembers about this one. The reasoning behind it is convoluted but basically it signifies kinkiness in bed. Sam grins.

 

He considers each individual finger, ghosting breath over Dean’s index finger but it’s the middle finger that he touches next with his tongue. The flavour of Dean’s skin is stronger here and Sam’s eyes dip in surprised pleasure. He uses the flat of his tongue to reach under, running it over the edge of the nail and then up to the first knuckle. He intends to stop there, is lucky really that Dean hasn’t woken up yet, but when his tongue runs over the wrinkles of that first knuckle it’s so deliciously rough that Sam can’t quite make himself stop.

 

Tentatively, watching Dean’s face for signs of alertness, Sam lets his top lip fall onto the pad of Dean’s middle finger and then, because he’s accustomed to taking risks and is starting to forget why he shouldn’t, he closes his mouth around the tip and lets himself suck lightly. It’s heavenly. He runs his tongue around Dean’s fingertip, sucks harder, always greedy, always wanting more, and Dean twitches again, harder this time, and Sam lets him go.

 

 

****

 

 

“Got a hand kink Sam?”

 

Sam startles, badly. “What? No!” This is bad. His voice is too high and he’s blushing. He’s reacting all wrong and he can’t help it and Dean will _know_. “What the fuck Dean?”

 

Dean looks away from the empty road and over at Sam. His expression is the patented not-impressed poker-face but with one eyebrow raised in question. “I don’t know Sam. Maybe I’m curious about why you’ve spent half an hour _staring at my hand_.”

 

“Thinking.” Sam says. “Resting my eyes.” Then quickly, because there’s a dawning look of amazement on his brother’s face he asks, “Why don’t you wear your ring anymore?”

 

“Gets in the way,” Dean says, smiling slowly. He flicks his eyebrow once more at Sam but this time it isn’t a question.

 

They drive on in silence for a few minutes while Sam desperately tries to think of a way out of this without fidgeting, blushing or otherwise further incriminating himself.

 

“So this hand thing,” Dean begins conversationally, “Is is anybody’s hands?”

 

Sam’s heart rate picks up and his body prepares for the familiar fight-or-flight response. He tries to calm it down.

 

Dean looks over again and Sam has to meet his eyes because those are the rules. “Or is it just mine?”

 

Sam looks straight ahead, straight out of the windshield. If he doesn’t react and doesn’t show fear then maybe Dean will back off. _Oh_ s _ure_ , says a small voice in the back of his head, _That’s right. And maybe it will rain unicorns and cotton candy and maybe money will start growing on trees._

 

Dean pulls the Impala over to the shoulder without warning, apparently having psychically gleaned his answer from Sam. There’s silence for a long minute and Sam doesn’t know what Dean’s doing because he has closed his eyes and doesn’t plan on opening them any time soon but _ohGod_ that’s Dean’s hand on his shoulder.

 

“Sam?” Dean’s voice is gentle and amused, “Come on man, you gotta look at me.”

 

So Sam looks. Dean _looks_ amused too, and a little concerned and… something else. Sam looks at Dean’s hand, still resting hot against his shoulder.

 

Sam was prepared for merciless teasing, for being called out as a giant weirdo, which he does feel like, or maybe for Dean to freak out about being the centre of Sam’s licentious daydreams. Probably the latter. He wasn’t prepared for Dean to touch him or sympathise with him, or for Dean to understand.

 

Slowly, as a cowhand might treat an easily spooked horse, Dean strokes his hand down, all the way down Sam’s arm, never breaking contact, to rest over his hand. “It’s okay Sam,” he says and squeezes. “Really, it’s okay.”

 

Sam’s breath comes faster, almost panting, and the muscles jump in his thighs. He’s fully hard in his jeans, body wired and straining. Dean reaches across with his free hand, slowly so that Sam can see what he’s doing, and rests it over the bulge of Sam’s cock.

 

Sam makes an embarrassing noise, a whimper maybe, and Dean squeezes. “Yeah?” Dean’s voice is lower, gruffer, just like his hands, “Really like my hands dontcha?” he asks, and it’s rhetorical, completely rhetorical. Dean presses, squeezes gently and Sam can’t believe this is really happening.

 

“C’mon Sam,” Dean half whispers, tugging at his belt.

 

“Dean?”

 

“It’s okay, c’mon,” Dean says pulling down his zipper and Sam can’t believe it. There’s no way this is okay but Sam’s lifting his hips anyway, shoving down jeans, underwear, bare leather against his skin, Dean’s hand on his thigh.

 

And then Dean takes hold of his cock and Sam’s hips buck up, straining for Dean’s attention, grinding his teeth against a sob. Dean strokes him and Sam can only watch as pre-come wells from the slit of his cock and runs back over Dean’s knuckles, coating the tiny scratches and scars and making Dean’s tanned skin glisten.

 

Dean shifts closer, twisting around to cup Sam’s balls, the most delicate part of Sam held in powerful skilful hands, manipulating him gently. Sam groans. Dean has used these hands to build cars from scratch. Those fingers have pleasured countless bodies and killed over and over again. There’s so much blood on Dean’s hands that Lady MacBeth would weep. But now their only focus is Sam. They’re caressing him, right at his centre, learning his most intimate parts.

 

Sam spreads his legs wider for Dean and shifts forwards on the seat, wanting to show his absolute trust. Wanting more. Wanting everything.

 

These hands have held Sam together, both figuratively, and literally on a few memorable occasions. Sam’s blood has seeped through Dean’s fingers as they stumbled towards sanctuary and the same clever fingers have sewn his skin, fixing him up just like the Impala, although right now Dean is using his hands to take Sam apart. Sam is being effortlessly stripped down to his bare kernel, as methodically as if he were Dean’s Beretta in need of cleaning.

 

Dean’s grip is practiced and sure, fingers exerting just enough pressure to tease out Sam’s pleasure but not enough to get him there until Dean wants him to come. The same fingers can locate a carotid artery and know the exact pressure to stop the flow.

 

Dean’s eyes are trained on Sam’s face. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are parted and Sam begs him, pleads for release with his own eyes. Dean gives him what he wants, tightening and twisting his grip and Sam spurts helplessly, over and over and over, all over Dean’s hands and his own thighs.

 

Sam is wrecked, resting his head against Dean’s shoulder, but not so wrecked that he misses Dean’s hand when he tries to pull it away. He snags it and brings Dean’s fingers to his lips, cleans him thoroughly and lovingly, moaning with the pleasure of finally being allowed to suck on those thick fingers to his heart’s content.

 

Eventually Dean pulls away and adjusts himself in his jeans. “Let’s find us a motel,” he says, and it’s a good impression of togetherness but Sam can see right through him.

 

“Can we can afford the extra day?” Sam asks lightly.

 

Dean reaches over again and this time he cups Sam’s face. He scritches his fingers in Sam’s hair just above his ear and for a moment Sam thinks his brother is going to kiss him. Then Dean says, “I’ll be the judge of that Sammy,” and they’re back on their endless crusade.

 

 


End file.
